A delicate white flame rose immediately out of the vessel. It shed a momentary, unearthly brightness around, then as speedily vanished again. And for the third time the witch spoke the mystic words: "From out the heart of an entire nation rises the incense of perfect joy in thy triumph over thine enemies!" This time, however, the magic powder did not act quite so rapidly as it had done on the two previous occasions. For a few seconds the vessel remained dark and unresponsive; nothing came to dispel the surrounding gloom. Even the light of the oil lamp overhead appeared suddenly to grow dim. At any rate, so it seemed to the autocrat who, with nerves on edge, sat upon his throne-like seat, his bony hands, so like the talons of a bird of prey, clutching the arms of his chair, his narrow eyes fixed upon the sybil, who in her turn was gazing on the metal vessel as if she would extort some cabalistic mystery from its depth. All at once a bright red flame shot out of the bowl. Everything in the room became suffused with a crimson glow. The old witch bending over her cauldron looked as if she were smeared with blood, her eyes appeared bloodshot, her long hooked nose cast a huge black shadow over her mouth, distorting the face into a hideous, cadaverous grin. From her throat issued strange sounds like those of an animal in the throes of pain. "Red! Red!" she lamented, and gradually as the flame subsided and finally flickered out altogether, her words became more distinct. She raised the crystal globe and gazed fixedly into it. "Always red," she went on slowly. "Thrice yesterday did I cast the spell in the name of Our Chosen . . . thrice did the spirits cloak their identity in a blood-red flame . . . red . . . always red . . . not only blood . . . but danger . . . danger of death through that which is red. . . ." Robespierre had risen from his seat, his thin lips were murmuring hasty imprecations. The kneeling figurants looked scared, and strange wailing sounds came from their mouths. The young blackamoor alone looked self-possessed. He stood by, evidently enjoying the scene, his white teeth gleaming in a huge, broad grin. "A truce on riddles, Mother!" Robespierre exclaimed at last impatiently, and descended hastily from the dais. He approached the old necromancer, seized her by the arm, thrust his head in front of hers in an endeavour to see something which apparently was revealed to her in the crystal globe. "What is it you see in there?" he queried harshly. But she pushed him aside, gazed with rapt intentness into the globe. "Red!" she murmured. "Scarlet . . . aye, scarlet! And now it takes shape . . . Scarlet . . . and it obscures the Chosen One . . . the shape becomes more clear . . . the Chosen One appears more dim. . . ." Then she gave a piercing shriek. "Beware! . . . beware! . . . that which is Scarlet is shaped like a flower . . . five petals, I see them distinctly . . . and the Chosen One I see no more. . . ."